


Sharp and Sweet

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>With an intermittent tremor, John would never be allowed to perform surgery again, but his hands are absolutely steady now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp and Sweet

It's pain, but not normal, ignorable pain; it's pain that comes from John and that’s the best kind of pain. He's not ignorant, whatever people might think, whatever John once thought. He is fully aware of what his body can take, how much neglect, how much abuse. How else would he be able to use it to its full capacity? How else would he know what his limits were and just how much he could push beyond them? It's a mastery second only to that of his own mind. There's a skill to it, a science; everything Sherlock's learned about himself, about this, he's had to do the hard way. As much as he endorses the experimental method it can be a messy, tedious business sometimes with wildly varying results. The main stumbling block was that he had no natural aptitude for it, no real sense of what his body actually wanted or needed. He knows some people do; he's met a large number of the better ones, for whom mastery comes naturally, but none of them have been able to understand his limits or decipher his responses. He's aware he did nothing to help them, nothing to encourage their learning, but then that wasn't his job.

For a moment there is a brief cessation of pain and he draws a slow breath; not done yet, he knows, simple logistics mean it couldn't all be done in one unbroken line. It's a good thing; it gives him time to catch his breath, to savour the burn that satisfies him on a level even cocaine has never reached. More satisfying still is the precision, the delicacy and deliberation. He blinks sweat damp lashes clear so he can see John's face clearly, the focus and concentration there… He’s seen it just before John shoots his gun, but that's a mere instant - this, this is sustained, distilled, and all for him. This is what made John a damn good surgeon and doctor; this is John's brilliance, his own genius.

More than that though, John _knows_ ; he has the instincts that Sherlock has always lacked, for when to push and when to still, what limits are true and what should be left in the dust. John knows Sherlock and for all the effort it has taken Sherlock to achieve mastery over himself, John has done it with unthinking ease. It's astonishing and sometimes even terrifying, but above all it is magnificent - like John himself. 

Sherlock had wanted, had voiced it, and John had denied, deflected, diverted and then come back with something even better.

With an intermittent tremor, John would never be allowed to perform surgery again, but his hands are absolutely steady now. They had both worked on the design in odd moments, but neither of them was particularly artistic, though they both know what they like. In the end though it was John who found a discreet professional with the artistic skill if not the technical, who had presented the completed design to Sherlock, who had fetched his medical kit because Sherlock was too impatient to wait. Impatience was one of Sherlock's many failings, but in this... oh in this he could be as patient as stone - not as patient as John perhaps, but then no-one was. Sherlock had been all but squirming on the bed as John had prepared, but at the first touch of John's hand he had stilled and his reward was this – better than he could ever have imagined.

The scalpel blade was back, so sharp it took the nerves several seconds to register the cut, but the burn afterwards, the pain, was exquisite. Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring it all. Nearly done now and in some ways it should have saddened him, but it didn't, it just made him fiercely proud. The last looping curve of the N trailed away and he made an inarticulate sound in his throat. He felt the sting and pressure of John's hands pressing sterile pads to the wounds carefully, not a single tear in the skin to mar the work. Sherlock couldn't see it, but he could feel it, and it was absolutely fucking beautiful. John was beautiful: to do this to him - for him. 

Sherlock had mastered his mind and mastered his body so he knew what it took, how impossible it was, yet without any seeming effort John had mastered _him_. The graceful curving script carved so delicately, lovingly, _permanently_ into his skin, was tangible proof, no deduction required at all. He forced his eyes open with effort to see John watching him. His hands didn't shake as he reached out and cupped John's face, drawing him forward. The kiss he pressed to those familiar lips was grateful adoration and when he felt John's hand press carefully, but firmly over the gauze on his hip, making the cuts burn again, Sherlock with all his command of the English language could find no other word for it but perfect.

 

FIN


End file.
